She doesn't know me, but she still trusts me with her darkest secrets. And that's intoxicating.
Even though she trusts anyone who stumbles on her site.
It feels different, like I know her, like I understand her.
Maybe I'm delusional, but I need her tonight. I need to swim in an ocean of understanding.
I open my computer, pull up her site, and I read until I'm too tired to read anymore.
* * *
I dream about my sister.
I dream about meetingHearts and Thornson the beach, readingThe Awakeningtogether, sharing every place we hurt.
She isn't the formless, shapeless figure she normally is.
She's Imogen.
And she's inviting me to offer something real of my own.
I wake to the smell of cinnamon, a head full of confusion, a hell of a lot of soreness. She was right. She wore me out.
And that's what I'm doing here.
What I'm doing with her.
Maybe I want the kind of intimacy my online crush offers, but I'm not completely oblivious. I get that goes both ways. I understand Imogen only wants me for one thing.
And I plan to enjoy every second giving her that thing.
I move through my morning routine, head downstairs, meet Imogen in the kitchen.
"Morning." Imogen turns to me with a wide, honest smile. "I got started early. But I can make you another round. I did promise to teach you."
"Can I try?"
She hands a steaming mug to me. "What do you think?"
The mix of spices fills the air. Cinnamon, ginger, cardamom, something like licorice. Not my usual breakfast. I push back when my friends mock my light beer consumption, but they're not exactly wrong.
I'm not a man of exquisite taste. The closest I've ever gotten to a homemade chai is sips of an ex-girlfriend's Starbuck's drink.
This blows that out of the water.
It's stronger, more robust than any tea I've ever tasted. It's spicy, rich, sweet, creamy. "That's amazing."
"Thanks."
"How did you do that?" I ask.
"It's easy."
"You tried my chai?"
"It wasn't that bad," she says. "Just over-steeped and under-spiced."
"Over what?"